


Waiting For The Sun

by Danyu



Category: Fruits Basket, Fruits Basket - Takaya Natsuki (Manga)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4954453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danyu/pseuds/Danyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those nights, as he sat there and held her, he could let himself imagine a fairytale ending. But every morning as the sun rose, reality was a cruel master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting For The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Diverges from canon in the sense that Rin was never taken from her parents.

The opaque night surrounded him on all sides as he crouched beneath her window, any light reflected from the moon turned away by the thick canopy of trees surrounding the house. The air was cold and biting, mournfully fitting for the late autumn season, and he blew on his hands in a feeble attempt to warm them as he waited for the light to go on in her room. He waited, and he heard the chiming from the grandfather clock in the hallway, striking the midnight hour. He could picture the clock in his mind; he passed by it every time she had to sneak him out the back door.

A faint illumination filled the room, and then her window slid open. In the dark, he heard the soft sound of her feet touching the ground and her hand slipped into his. A strange thrill rang through him, as he judged by touch and not by sight, her palm sliding against his, her fingers curling around his wrist. He could almost feel her smile.

Hand in hand, they began their journey down a path so familiar every step had become some innate memory, every weave and curve recognized without having to see as the well-worn trail led through the trees and finally opened into a wide space, the old remains of an abandoned park. No longer shadowed by the overcastting trees, the full face of the moon shone down, illuminating the rickety old swing set, a rusty jungle gym, a broken teeter-totter and the benches aligning the play area. She tugged impatiently on his hand, and he followed her lead, craning his head to the side to take in full sight of her. He was struck by a boyish kind of awe, staring at this girl nearly two years his senior. She was beautiful, a dangerous sort of beautiful with long, raven-black hair, dark eyes, and a wickedly sensual smile that wreaked havoc on his fifteen-year-old mind.

She watched the kindling of quiet appreciation in his gaze, different from the vulgar, lusting stares of men she had known in the past. His was different, wanting, loving, and rendering her feeling whole and still strangely vulnerable.

His eyes flicked to the low-cut sweater and hip-riding jeans she wore, quirking an eyebrow in inquiry. "Aren't you cold?"

"Hmm, maybe." As they finally came to the nearest bench, she sat down, holding out her hand to him invitingly. "You could keep me warm."

"Always." He placed his hand in hers, their fingers tightly enlacing, and he sat down beside her. He slipped off his battered leather jacket and wrapped it around her before pulling her into his arms, holding her close. The old jacket smelled like him, surrounding her in familiar warmth as surely as his embrace as she settled against him, her back against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin.

"Why would you wear something so thin if you knew you would be cold?" His voice was low, deep with a resounding rumble through his chest. She marveled at the sound for a moment, remembering just when his voice had changed, shifting and reforming like the rest of him as he made the transition from boy to man that had him catching her eye in the first place. He had been fourteen then, and even now he was still growing, still changing. She found strange satisfaction in being there to watch him grow and change and learn. He still had so much to learn, and yet already he knew too much. There were times when she prayed she would not be the one to teach him the rest, other times she longed for it. It was an odd contradiction.

She twisted around just enough to look at him, her lips curling into a teasing smile. "I thought you liked the way I dressed."

"Of course I do," he found himself replying, as he kissed her forehead and leaned his head against hers, though he knew her clothes were just as much for his benefit as they were a defiance against her father, just one of a dozen subtle rebellions she threw back in the old man's face from day to day, few among the thousands he accused her of in vain efforts to provide reason why he punished her the way he did. His jaw clenched at the thought, and he forced himself to relax.

He spoke softly into her ear, his voice a sultry whisper, "I like nearly as much in them as I like you out of them."

The suggestive comment had its desired effect as her delighted laughter reached his ears, as she turned fully in his arms, her arms twining around his neck as she pressed a kiss to his jaw, another to his chin. She looked up at him, suddenly sober, her dark eyes unreadable. "At least someone does," she whispered.

The strange undertones he heard caught his attention. "What happened, sweetheart?"

The endearment drew from her a weak smile as she curled up against him, her head against his shoulder. "My mother."

"What did she say?"

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped her, an ugly sound that had him tightening his arms around her, wishing with all his might that he could protect her from the monsters in her mind as in the real world. "She said…she said I was always causing them trouble, and my clothes were just part of it. She said…that all my acting up was the reason Dad had his heart attack."

"Oh, sweetheart." As she trembled, he thought her cold, but another shudder followed, one after the other until her entire body was shaking with silent sobs, and her tears were soaking the fabric of his shirt. Shocked to see her cry in a way she had not since they were children; he hesitated for just a moment before he was there to rock her gently back and forth, as he whispered reassuringly into her ear, jumbled, indecipherable sounds that made little sense. But she cared little for sensible things right then and there, and his voice was soothing, an anchor among the sea of pent-up pain, as much as the hand gently rubbing circles along her back.

She slowly calmed, and the tremors running through her body quieted as she drew back to look at him, saw his eyes full of pain and uncertainty, and her heart ache. She opened her mouth to speak, but never had the chance as his eyes suddenly changed, darkened, hardened in less time than a heartbeat as he grabbed her chin, turning her face to gain a better view of the swelling bruise on her left cheek.

"Did he hit you again?" His voice was deceptively soft.

She snorted, pulling away from the hand around her face. "No, he can't even raise his hand for a glass of water, let alone to hit me. It was _her_."

"She hit you?"

"Slapped me."

He swore violently under his breath, and she watched him warily, watched the different emotions pass through his eyes, rage, anger, pain, fear, and a fierce protectiveness that had been part of him since they had gravitated toward each other after elementary, and he had seen for the first time the kind of hell she lived in at home.

His jaw clenched, setting in a familiar line of defiance and suppressed anger, and his hands around her wrists became painfully tight.

"Hey."

Memories flew through his mind, each and every injury or hurt ingrained into his mind as if they had all happened yesterday.

"Hey!"

He jerked back to reality as she called to him, watching her with a darkened visage as she met his eyes with a blank, thoughtful gaze, weakly flicking her wrists in his hold. "Let go, please. You're hurting me."

_You're hurting me…_

The words resounded through the air between them as he released as abruptly as if scalded. He stared at the red imprints left by his hands, and his stomach rolled, the nausea overwhelming as he closed his eyes against what he saw. A hand gently cupped his chin, turning his face toward her as she whispered softly, asking him to look at her.

He did as she asked, keeping himself frightfully still as revulsion filled him as he thought of his outburst of temper, his unintentional hurting of her. He had not meant to, he truly had not, but still the self-disgust rose in his throat, turned his stomach, refused to be displaced. How was he any different from him, from the monster who beat on her from day to day?

Her fingers brushed through his hair, skimming downward to trace the curve of his cheek. The touch was whisper-soft, a ghostly contact, and he tried to draw back, but her hand around his arms stopped him, not by physical strength but by her verbal response to the thoughts he had not realized he had spoken aloud. "You're nothing like him, you're different. I understand. I know you would never hurt me. It was an accident. You would never hurt me. I believe that. You should too."

He nodded once, a firm affirmation, and she slid back into his arms, nestling against him. Her head against his chest, she focused on the steady cadence of his heartbeat, a strong, thundering rhythm that worked to reassure her.

He slipped his hands beneath his jacket and her sweater, only separated from her bare skin by the thin fabric of the chemise she wore underneath. He traced her fingers gently along her back and sides, the warmth radiating from her soaking into him with every touch. With his hands he remembered broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, wicked bruises caused by internal bleeding, the scar on her back left by a belt buckle that never fully healed. He felt her body heat, her racing pulse, for she was warm and utterly alive under his touch, and he closed his eyes, clinging helplessly to that single reassurance.

"It's almost Christmas," he said softly, fumbling desperately for any change of topic he could find.

She nodded against his shoulder, looking at him through hooded eyes. "Hmm, yeah."

"Your birthday's a little closer."

"Still a few months off. Eighteen doesn't come soon enough, does it?"

He pressed his forehead to her shoulder, heaving a quiet sigh. "Rin…"

"Hmm?"

"When you are eighteen…you'll be leaving, won't you?"

"Of course."

He sighed again, slipping his arms around her waist. "…Take me with you…"

"You know I can't."

"Why not?"

"You're only fifteen, Haru. You're too young. You still have to graduate."

"And you don't?"

"That's different. You have potential. Me…I'm nothing. I won't be missed."

"Don't say that," he whispered, nuzzling against her neck, "Don't say that when you know I would miss you more than life."

"I know."

He pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, exhaling gently, his warm breath brushing against her skin. "I'll wait for you then."

"Until when? When you graduate?"

"Yeah…"

"Haru…" She said his name in a huff of sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, as she twisted around once more and kissed him in a way that both soothed and enflamed him, and he returned her kiss, slowly, languorously, until her body sang with sensation and she melted in his arms, sinking into his embrace as she rested her head in the crook of his neck.

"That's not realistic and you know it. Besides, I'll be too old for you then. I'll practically be a spinster."

He chuckled softly, kissing her temple. "You'll be a spinster at twenty?"

"Okay, maybe not a spinster, but still, Haru, it's ridiculous to think you'll wait two years for me. I won't tie you down like that."

"You're hunting for excuses. You know I'll wait no matter what."

"Why…?"

"Because I love you."

"Do you really?"

He drew back, enough to look her in the eye. "You still question that?"

She met his gaze levelly for a moment, and then she shook her head furiously, sighing with frustration. "No. I know you love me. That's what scares me."

"Why?"

"For God's sake, Haru! You're fifteen years old! You're supposed to fall in and out of love a thousand times before you're twenty…but you…you're different. You treat me like…like you really treasure me, like you're afraid to let me go."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"I don't know any more…"

He looked at her, staring with unreadable eyes for a prolonged moment. "Let me take you away from here," he whispered, an echo of a thousand other pleas.

"Where would we go?"

"Anywhere but here. Someplace different. Someplace where we can see the sun."

"We can't…"

"Why?"

She stared at him blankly, then she slid her arms around his neck, kissing him gently, and he knew she would not answer him. Surrounded by shadow, he was left waiting once more. They both were. He was never sure what it was he was waiting for.

Perhaps the sun would rise soon, and they would return to their games of pretend. Her, to pretending everything was alright and that the nights with him were not her only haven from the hell she lived. Him, to pretending he did not worry for her every second he lived and breathed, to pretending he did not care as much as he did.

Perhaps as the sun rose this time, things would be different. Perhaps in the daylight, she would smile when he said he loved her, and not seem so distant and frightened. Perhaps with the daylight, her bruises would fade, and all he would feel beneath his fingertips as he touched her would be smooth, unblemished skin free of marks of her past hurt.

Perhaps not.

Those nights, as he sat there and held her, he could let himself imagine a fairytale ending. But every morning as the sun rose, reality was a cruel master.

So why was it, as he waited for the dawn to break, that he was unable to suppress that feeling of anticipation, of hope that the day would bring something different?

Perhaps because he loved her, he was unable to squash all his feelings of the single, fleeting, ungraspable entity called hope.

And in those moments when she gazed at him with dark eyes full of fear and pain and uncertainty, and most of all, a love she would never express in words, all he could do was hope.

All he could do was hope.


End file.
